


Boys Chase Girls Chase Boys

by Tasia (ruikosakuragi)



Series: Royai Prompts [5]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, F/M, Romance, Surveillance, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi/pseuds/Tasia
Summary: Ex-grifter Roy Mustang had come a long way. Now, as the Feds’ for-hire superstar and the glue that bound a team of six highly skilled, morally questionable individuals, he was convinced he could complete the job that eluded him two years ago… Until he came face to face with a woman from his past.





	Boys Chase Girls Chase Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fullmetalscully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetalscully/gifts).

> A/N: Prompt from fullmetalscullyy: "What's cookin' good lookin'?" Thank you for indulging me with this, friend, I had a lot of fun! I'm sorry it took so long. Title is a variation of Ingrid Michaelson's Girls Chase Boys.

Roy Mustang knew he should have retired when he had the chance. The soft sands in the Bahamas or the shoreline view of the Amalfi Coast would have been awfully relaxing. The temperature would have been a tad more agreeable, too. Instead, here he was in the back of a U-Haul truck, damp cotton shirt stuck to his skin and cheeks numb from the press of his cold Coca-Cola cup. Blue-light filter glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he leaned into the flickering screen, mouth pursed in wait.

He considered his colorful past redeemed, forgiven. Justified. Otherwise, he wouldn't be where he was now. When the Feds wanted something off the record, Roy Mustang would come in. Twenty-hour days, a few million dollars - _untraceable_ \- split between his core team of five, who came from a similar background as he and just as adept in the arts of deceit. Annually, Roy Mustang made more dinero than most straight shooter, federal agents he worked alongside.

By the age of thirty-two, his dysfunctional fambam had stockpiled the FBI weapons' room, one wall to the other, with more incriminating evidence of the underworld than Hades's own hell pit. The bureau's basement had been the same. It contained boxes upon boxes stuffed with stolen diamonds and recovered hard drives and, the most impressive of them all, an active land mine the size of a commercial fridge with a garage-full of black market weapons.

Transporting them had taken half a day, requiring more brain than brawn, and Roy found himself tossing and turning in his sleep more than usual the night before. All was worth the trouble, however, when he saw Padre Bradley's fury-slapped face turn blue at the porch of his Balinese mansion. Since then, the job kept coming and coming, and soon enough he could probably build his own cash vault, neck-deep and complete with a diveboard.

But even with a dashing list of accomplishments, one problem continued to nag in the back of his mind. _Nothing_ escaped Roy Mustang. And that was why he found himself among his old pals, broiled inside a cramped truck parked four blocks away, to finish a job that wasn't supposed to elude their grasp two years ago.

The back of the moving truck jerked suddenly, and Roy yanked his throbbing head to find Jean Havoc - confidant-turned-accomplice - with the new blond recruit beside him.

Pulling the doors closed, Havoc's subtle country accent belied their predicament, jovial as always with a roll of cancer stick trapped in between his teeth, "Found him, boss. He was stuck in the vent above the apartment. Edward's too big."

"That's right, you bastard," Edward snarled, forefinger pointing at Mustang with hate and accusations. "Next time you call me shrimp, you better remember I'm hella lobster!"

"What the hell does that even mean?" the portly redhead chortled, his round stomach bouncing to the sound of his mirth. Heymans Breda, chief strategist for their little covert operation, promptly removed his headphone and let it hang around his neck, as though waiting for something amusing to happen.

"I'm not small _or_ short, that's what I mean!" the eighteen-year old declared.

His birthday bash was three days ago, spent in the company of virgin fruit punch, a stack of lottery tickets, and a pack of measuring tapes with a pencil-eraser. Roy had filled his shopping cart with the insult, taunting the hotheaded youth he'd need to mark the walls each time he grew an inch. That was the final straw for Edward, and the kid swore off to never _ever_ call Mustang by his name ever again. Roy would forever go by one of many creative names: pompous dick, captain douche, and sphincter waffle. "Bastard" was Edward's way of saying that he still wanted to get paid after all was said and done.

"Did you bug the vent?" Mustang asked, expression held in indifference only because he knew it would irritate the younger man even more.

"Yes, of course, I did. What do you take me for?" Edward huffed, tossing his braided long hair over his shoulder.

"Good job," Breda smacked the blonde's back, teeth locked in a grin. "Now we can get this party started!"

"Shh, guys! We hear something," Vato Falman shushed from behind the surveillance monitor. His bed of grey hair disguised his remarkable memory; the man was essentially a walking encyclopedia.

Kain Fuery swiveled in his stool and cast a nod at Mustang, hand gesturing to the flashing live footage. He finally got the cameras working, and Roy knew the man's youthful features had nothing to do with his circuit of expertise in surveillance.

There were five screens total, black-and-white, the rightmost one displaying a lanky man in an all-black attire, grey cap serving to conceal what they learned was a shaved head with a sizable serpent tattoo etched above his right ear.

"Target's approaching the front door. His hand's fumbling with the keys. The package is under his arm," Fuery announced. "Am I glad we got those mics and cameras working just in time."

Mustang snared his breath above a pounding heart. His hands were clammy, and a bead of sweat rolled down to the strain of a taut jaw. This was always the best part of their job, watching the action come to play, hours of work unfolding in the set, steady minutes.

"Any day now…" Havoc intoned, a slant of a gleam over his clear-blue eyes. The sandy-haired agent seemed excited, too. Thrilled. Once upon a time, he was the main man in the field, but a bad leg from a previous job gone wrong retired him prematurely to a life behind the screen.

"Okay, send Ling in," Mustang said, mounting a headphone on his head, clamping it comfortably over his ears.

The operation that took months to organize shot before his eyes. Ling slithered out of the target's closet without much of a sound. Effortlessly, the stringy teen blended with the long black drapes and froze in wait until it was time. Just as planned.

"Damn, he's pretty good. Can't even tell someone's behind the curtain," Breda hummed in approval. "Where'd you find this kid?"

"Chinatown," Roy replied. "He was doing some pretty impressive moves while his girlfriend snatched wallets from the audience."

"Cool," Havoc droned, the cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke, watchful eyes tracking the broadcast.

The target entered his bedroom, setting the package atop a chest of drawers. He then hauled the faux Starry Night painting from the wall above it, revealing at least three cubic feet digital safe, deep enough to store multiple firearms and a short stack of gold bars.

"A big ass safe in a junkyard," Havoc chimed, "wonder what else he's hiding in there."

Taking the package - a thin Amazon box no larger than a textbook, the man coddled it into the safe. Next, he pulled out one of his drawers, grabbed what looked like a pair of underwear, and left the room.

"Target leaving the bedroom, heading for the bathroom. Ling, you have-" Fuery darted his eyes between two monitors, "seven minutes. Target's got his phone out, and it looks like he's taking a dump."

"Seven minutes?" Havoc said, brows wrinkled in confusion. "How did ya figure?"

"I read it on an article. Two minutes for the actual poop, four minutes for Twitter, and about one minute to wipe your bum."

"You definitely need more than one minute to wipe shit off your ass," Breda chuckled, shaking his head mildly.

There was only the sound of his ragged breath when Ling slipped out from behind the curtains, glided across the floor to the drawers, and lifted the painting from the wall.

"Falman, you got the codes?" Mustang asked.

"Ling," Falman tilted his chin down and spoke into the mic, "9-0-2-1-0 and then pound."

"Ha! He must be a fan of the show," Havoc laughed and slapped his knee, amused at his own joke. He turned to Edward, who stood speechless and confused, "Oh, it's waaaay before your time, Chief."

"Ling, you got three minutes and then you need to get the fuck out," Mustang informed, his tone stern. He was starting to worry. It shouldn't have taken him more than a few seconds to punch in the codes, and the kid had been staring at it for much longer.

"The code didn't work," Ling breathed, swiping a forearm across his forehead. The kid was nervous, Roy thought. There was a slight agitation to Ling's voice, and Roy could only watch with a twist in his stomach as the young man pilfered something from the band that collected his long ponytail - a bobby pin, or a lock pick tool. Ling inserted it into the keyhole, his hands working assiduously, while his gaze peered at the door every so often.

When another minute passed without result, Mustang cursed under his breath, confronting Falman, "Shit. Did he change it? When did we get that information?"

"Last week," Falman supplied. "I don't remember seeing him change it though."

"Maybe one of us fell asleep and missed it," Breda shrugged. He was always calm during a mission, but Roy knew the gear in his head was already turning, scrambling for Plan B.

"Guys. Hey, guys!" Fuery crowed. "There's someone at the door. A woman."

Immediately, Roy fixed his glare to the screen. He didn't recognize her from the back, but her hair was long and light in color, tied in a high ponytail that brushed the back of her neck. Her legs fidgeted underneath her skinny jeans, a finger chasing down the tank top strap that kept drifting down one arm. Once or twice she would look over her shoulder, as if afraid someone might see or recognize her.

Roy asked in haste, "Falman, who's that?"

Already the older man was tussling with the personnel files he collected a few weeks before. Thumbing through it in a quick motion, he dipped his nose towards the screen and squinted. "I don't know. There's no one here who looks like her."

"She's ringing the doorbell," Fuery announced. "Target's zipping up his pants and leaving the bathroom."

"Shit, shit, _shit_," Mustang cursed, running restless fingers through his dark locks. "Ling, do what you do best."

In an instant the painting was back up on the wall, the tips of his fingers correcting the level of the frame. Head turning in all directions, Ling eventually decided to crawl under the bed, pulling the hem of the duvet cover for good measure. "Don't judge. It's the best I can think of right now," Ling whispered, his breath coming in short pants.

"She's talking to the target," Fuery informed.

"What are they saying?" Falman asked.

"Nothing. The mic isn't picking'em up," Breda said. "They're too far from the kitchen."

Eyes plastered to the screen, Mustang said, "Ling, I think you're good to-"

"Wait!" Fuery suddenly barked into the mic, the audio hissing in their ears. Breda and Mustang swiftly removed their headphones, a peeved groan from the shrill. The tech whiz finished, "Ling, go back under! Someone's coming from the bedroom balcony!"

The whine of the sliding door opening and closing was just above a whisper, but Roy could plainly see on the monitor as another woman emerged from the balcony. Narrowing his eyes, he noticed similarities between her and the woman at the door, who was currently chatting their target. This one, however, was shorter in height and preferred the comfort of a pair of yoga pants over skinny jeans.

The woman tiptoed to the painting on the wall and swiftly removed it without making a sound. At this, Roy could feel the pulse on his neck riding high, and he said to Ling, whose view was still blocked by the blanket, "Ling, she's punching in the codes and-" his jaw dropped, "she opened it. What the fuck...?"

"Package is removed. Package is removed," Breda repeated.

"Ling, that's your cue. Go!" Mustang commanded. He didn't bother masking the distress in his tone. "Don't lose it!"

Roy could barely follow the scene when Fuery shouted that their target was moving. The man must have heard the suspicious scuffle from his bedroom. The next thing Roy knew, Ling had engaged the woman in a hand-to-hand, landing punches at her, which she skillfully dodged with her own acrobatic moves.

"Um, the woman at the door walked in," Fuery said with hesitance.

Concerned for Ling, Mustang hardly lifted his gaze from the scene, inadvertently dismissing the unrest in Fuery's voice. The struggle between Ling and the woman continued, to Mustang's dismay. The teen's long leg flew for a swift kick, but the woman dipped low and avoided it completely. Abruptly, she stooped down and made claws out of her fingers, the tips touching the floor.

Beside him, Fuery decided to announce the play by play on his end, "Hey uh… the woman grabbed our target and pulled him into a chokehold… and covered his mouth with something..."

Torn between multiple screens and the unexpected situation before them, Roy hardly noticed he had been arresting his breath. He expelled a short puff and watched as the woman mirrored Ling's crouching stance to send her own swiping kick. Mustang's eyes widened when he saw Ling knock his bottom to the ground, followed by the crunching sound of bone and a crack from the wood floor beneath. The woman proceeded to straddle him, then she bent forward so that her whole body was hovering over the teen.

At this, Roy realized what he had to do. He stole a glimpse of Edward, seeing the kid's stupefied gaze locked on the screen, and growled, "Edward, go back him up and come back in one piece!"

Edward promptly left the truck without so much a protest. But when Roy turned back to the screen, Ling was already passed out, head lolling to the side and one knee gradually slumping forward in reflex.

Fuery paused and then gasped. Roy jerked his head to him, finding a trail of shock on the bespectacled man's face. Fuery squeaked, "Umm, our target's on the floor and unconscious. What do we do?"

"Ling is, too," Mustang clipped.

Without another thought, Roy hastily sprang up, tossed his blue-filter glasses, and snatched an extra set of earpiece and mic from the makeshift table behind them. He inserted them into his ear and clipped a body-worn camera on the curve of his collar. Furiously, he forced the U-Haul's double door open. "Watch them closely. I'm going in."

He sprinted as fast as he could, crossing the intersections without slowing down his pace and sped up upon seeing the apartment. Hands on his knees, he gathered his respiration for a second before mounting up the stairs of the rundown building with brisk feet. Once he reached the second floor, he scanned for Number 208, finding it near the end of the hallway.

"You can go in," Fuery said over the earpiece. "The woman's in the bathroom looking under the cabinet. The other one's still in the bedroom."

Turning the knob quietly, Roy wormed in through the narrow slit of the front entrance before closing it. His cautious gaze was hooked on the kitchen, seeing their target slumped against the whirring fridge. He motioned carefully for the bathroom, tiptoeing, releasing air through his mouth with his vision latched onto the scraped up white door a few feet forward.

"Ed, how are you doing?" Roy asked hushedly, perspiring hand reaching for the pistol tucked inside his jacket. Behind him he could hear their target snort, loudly, and though Roy's form remained composed, his ear had twitched at the noise.

Breda answered for him, "Ed's mic broke when he ran into a biker on the way there. Right now he's at the balcony, waiting. I think our girl's not only taking the package but also everything else in the safe. She's stuffing them into a duffle bag."

"And Ling?"

"Still passed out on the floor."

Sucking in air through his teeth, Roy approached the bathroom and stood a couple feet from the door, the flat of his back glued to the adjacent wall. "Tell Ed to go in. We only need the package and nothing else. I'll take care of the other woman."

Sure enough when Roy heard the signs of struggle coming from the bedroom, the woman in the bathroom twisted the knob. The door opened with a force, and she stepped out hurriedly, a gun in her hand and a suppressor attached.

"Nope. Put that down," Mustang ordered, aiming his weapon at her.

The woman turned to him, and out of nowhere, something about her appearance hit him with a jolt; she seemed oddly familiar.

Blazing brown eyes glared at him beneath her side-swept fringe, and the crease of disdain along her nose made her scowl strangely endearing. Her flaxen hair exaggerated a fair complexion, and a dimple dotted one cheek when her plump lips pursed in exasperation. Appraising her from top to bottom, Mustang admired her appealing curves, shapely breasts and hips flanked by toned arms that could probably punch the light out of him. She was beautiful.

An appreciative whistle rang in his ears, and Havoc sniffed, "Damn! What's cookin' good lookin'? Look at that cleavage. Boss, can you tilt your camera down just a bit? I wanna see her legs."

Ignoring Havoc's comment, Roy repeated his command when the woman stood motionless, "I said put that down. And slide it over to me."

After what felt like forever, she finally followed his direction, her gaze never leaving his as she lowered her gun. Slowly, surely. Almost there. But without warning, she crouched down, one hand touching the floor for balance and her legs spread apart, and hurled the gun at him, hard and fast, hitting him squarely on the crotch.

"Oh fuck!" Mustang exclaimed, knees pressed together as he slumped forward.

She leaped off with an enraged grunt, her full weight tackling him to the ground. In the tussle, his gun hit the floor, sliding across the floor until it clanged against something under the TV cabinet. Both of them watched it disappear, sharp vision locked and alert. Instantly, they both jerked their heads to the opposite direction, finding the other gun within reach.

With the woman straddling him and Roy pinned with both arms above his head, they flitted an eyeful at each other and realized what they had to do. Mustang gathered strength in his throat and rolled his body over so that now he was above her, earning a surprised yelp from the blonde. Heart racing a mile a minute, he could feel her writhing beneath him, striving for release. Then she ceased her struggles, her muscles relaxing, and he saw her laugh - a full blown laughter - as if she was finding the whole situation amusing.

"If you want to be on top you can just tell me, you know," she smiled. Surprisingly, her voice crooned a smooth British accent, one that separated the high society from the working class Cockney.

"I have more control this way," Roy smirked, "but nice try."

"Good one, boss," Havoc sneered.

Extending one arm, Roy fought for the cold steel of her gun, his fingers fumbling to reach. He stretched it a bit more, all the while pressing his chest against hers in anticipation of another scrimmage. Once the weapon was secured in his grip, he lifted it up and away from her and slowly rose to a stand.

"Get up. Hands where I can see them."

She raised her arms, slowly, her mouth opening to speak, "You're making a big mistake." When Roy made no motion to lower his gun, she added, "We're on the same side here."

"Boss, we found them. Her name is Elizabeth Hawkeye," Breda advised. "And the girl with Ed is Winry Rockbell."

Roy spoke to the mic looped around his ear, "Associations?"

"None. She moved to London with her mother at age four and has been living there ever since. Her estranged grandfather is newspaper tycoon George Grumman. Oh and get this, her father Berthold Hawkeye was a research scientist at Solaris Pharmaceutical who went missing seven years ago while she was studying chemical engineering at Cambridge."

"Rich, smart, beautiful. And that accent is fucking hot..." Havoc said dreamily. "I call dibs."

His mind flittered through pages of recollection. Solaris Pharmaceutical was also involved in million dollars lawsuit not too long ago. A groundbreaking new product, and an illegal drug trial that was kept away from the public until recently.

"Miss Hawkeye, what are you doing here?" Roy asked.

Elizabeth scoffed, her glare long and critical, "That's none of your business."

Gesturing to the living room, Roy glided a prudent stride, one at a time. Elizabeth tracked the direction of his gun, stepping to mirror his movement, before finally standing in front of the sofa.

"Sit," Roy ordered.

She didn't.

Cocking the gun, Roy warned, "It would be in your best interest to listen to me."

"I'd rather not."

It was difficult to keep calm when his blood boiled to the brim. "I've got agents posted downstairs and across the street if this isn't enough to scare you."

She chuckled, "Come on, I think we both know that's not true."

"Why are you after the package?" he hustled.

"The same thing as you, Mr. Mustang," she answered simply, shoulders shrugging noncommittally.

"Uh oh, I think she knows you, boss," Breda said.

"Yeah, you think?" Mustang bit back. Then he centered on her once again, "Elizabeth, my colleague is in there-" he canted his head in the direction of the bedroom, "with yours, and he's a pretty damn good fighter. So I think I've got the up-"

At that precise moment, the bedroom door creaked and Edward walked out of it, his hands high to the ceiling. A splash of wet below the collar of his black shirt - blood, Mustang thought - and a smudge of purplish hue staining a pale cheek.

Winry tailed behind him, a self-satisfied grin smeared across her face. Her injury was trivial compared to his, aside from the small cut on her bottom lip. The girl couldn't have been older than Ed, and her appearance was undoubtedly a miniature version of Elizabeth apart from the bright blue eyes that mocked the back of Edward's head.

Roy rounded his mouth to launch his own warning, but he heard the cocking sound of a gun.

_Son of a bitch._

Roy lugged a deep breath and sighed. He attempted to summon control over the building frustration, but the way his heart beat louder and faster only served to hinder all effort. He groaned, "Edward, are you _serious_?"

"Wh-at's go-ing o-n?" Fuery asked over the comm, an abrupt hiss of static fraying his question. Then it was clear again. "The cameras aren't working. We're going to troubleshoot. Havoc and Breda are going in."

Mustang glared at Edward, mouth drawn into a thin reprimand.

"She's got a gun, what did you want me to do?!" Edward barked in defense.

Leisurely, Winry strolled towards Elizabeth without a precaution in her gait, the gun poised in one hand, tracking Edward's head. The young woman brought her hand out from behind. In it was the package.

"So I have your little friend here and also _this_," Winry said, waving the box around.

"I'm not little!" Ed shouted, as if on impulse.

"Shut up!" Winry snapped and swung a low kick around his ankle.

Edward screeched and flailed forward, knees hitting the floor with a loud thud. Mustang had to stifle the sudden desire to fling his weapon at the young woman, right at her face.

"Hand over your gun," Elizabeth dictated, opening her empty palm up towards him. In reflex, Roy brought the gun closer to his side, away from her reach. She raised her voice, "Give it to me, Roy. Now!"

Beside her, Winry closed in the muzzle of her gun to Edward's temple. She counted down, "Three… two..."

"Alright, alright!" Mustang acquiesced. Dangling the weapon around his forefinger, he offered it to Elizabeth.

The blonde scurried to the bedroom, pushed the door open with her foot, and exited with a large duffle bag in her hand. "Let's go, Win."

Her gun up and pointed, Winry slowly rounded from behind and confronted Edward face to face. In a strange turn of event, she abruptly dropped her aim and smiled, adorably, before crushing a fierce kiss on Edward's mouth.

The blond teen stammered something that Roy could barely hear, his face rolling on a bright red tint, but Winry's playful timbre was loud and clear, "You're cute, and I wish we could've met under a different circumstance." Then she backed away carefully, the package fastened in her grasp, until she made contact with the front door. She slipped out without another word.

"And this is where I leave you, Mr. Mustang," Elizabeth said, the gun by her hip, steady and aimed. Slinging the duffle bag across her torso, she rested a narrow gaze on him while her heels retreated to the exit. Unexpectedly, she smiled, the curve on her lips taking on a wistful mien, "I didn't think I'd see you again after Hawaii." No more than a second later, she disappeared into the hallway.

Breda rushed in several minutes after, a pistol in his hand, "Chief, are you two alright?" Havoc limped in behind him, a cigarette missing from his mouth.

"You two are super late!" Edward snapped.

Havoc replied, "It's almost half a mile away, Chief. We got here as fast as we could."

Dismissing Edward, Breda prompted a peculiar look at Roy, whose mind had been spinning nonstop about her parting words. The redhead, at last, voiced the million dollar question, "Were you in Hawaii with her?"

A reel of images swirled around, ones of swaying palm trees and a woman with shimmering golden hair that barely touched the slope of her collarbone. It had been a sweltering day, but the breeze was appeasing under the July sun. And between the cold mai tai in his hand and the battling of wits with the beautiful stranger across from him, Roy wasn't sure why the memory had been elusive.

He remembered her taking a sip of his drink, teased a smile, and then traced the sharp line of his jaw with her thumb, kissing him softly, briefly, just enough for him to taste the sweet hint of rum on her lips. Then she left to join her friends who had been calling out to her, but not before slipping a torn receipt with her room number and a designated time underneath his palm.

That was five years ago.

"That's- She was-" Roy prattled, his thoughts tied in a knot.

_Above satin sheets, the press of tangled limbs and the slide of their mouths danced for dominance. She was stretched beneath him, steadily unraveling, a puddle of breaths and sighs, and him the push and pull of unrelenting tides._

"But she didn't have that accent…" Roy murmured, the pinch between his brows hardening.

"Who was she?" Breda pressed, the tip of his sneaker prodding the unconscious man in the kitchen.

_When an unexpected coax of his name tore from her lips, he rocked with more fervor - more urgency. Slender fingers crumpled his hair and moist palm climbed his back, and he respired, nuzzled her neck, and forgot to kiss. But when he finally opened his eyes, coal gaze clinging to brown, he saw that she was glowing._

Havoc flicked him a strange look. "Boss?"

"Riza," Roy answered with certainty, "that was Riza." Raking uneasy fingers through his hair, he added, "She was a one-night stand..."

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated!


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